Pity Party
by CeceRoze
Summary: Once upon a time Stanford did something horrible and unforgivable to Fiddleford. Now, the entire town will pay the price. Songfic AU based on Pity Party by Melanie Martinez.
1. Chapter 1

The shack sits in solace. Everyone who attended is long gone, free to explore the rebounds of the outside world. It is unfortunate that the same cannot be said for the host. The poppers hanging on the ceiling have all been emptied out of their confetti and broken bottles are strewn across the dirty floor. Up a few steps in the back of the house leads to two feet sitting in worn out, brown sneakers.

There isn't much that he can remember himself from back in his college days… back when he was younger and more idealistic… However, what he can recall from those fickle days of blind innocence can only be described as surreal and fantastically romantic... almost like a dream. But every dream comes to an end and eventually fades into a distant memory if it is not forgotten completely. All those evenings of holding hands and frolicking through the dying sunlight and watching the stars through a thirty meter telescope. All those nights spent alone together in the lab creating said telescope. Those experiences are now worlds away as flashes of the triangle keychain worm their way into his brain. In reality, it hangs limply from his half-open palm.

The party was for lack of a better term fun while it lasted. There was an enormous cake, though he has absolutely no idea who it is for (it still stands, not a bite taken from it) and really no idea what the party was even for. But he does know that everyone at it enjoyed themselves and each other, popping bottles of champagne and dancing to nonstop music all night. It was the splitting image of the perfect party… well, almost. Through his fevered memory of what happened all those nights ago, he can only think of one thing that was missing… him. And so he sat there for days on end on that same spot on the ruptured staircase with his face in his hands, pondering all the while what it would be like if he were there with him.

That man that he spent all of his college life with, the perfect lab partner. The only one tolerant enough to put up with his own extreme thirst for knowledge as his thirst to figure out the unknown was just as strong – was. But all that happiness- all of the time they spent all came to a bitter end after the argument that led to the fall. No one attended his parties after that, and so even though he sits in a room saran-wrapped with shiny, new streamers and a fresh custom cake, it all feels like the nicely decorated house is in ruins. It isn't worth pouring his heart into every single invitation he sent out if he could no longer reach him. He would do anything to have those days back around again. Absolutely anything, even if it meant give up his soul to a demon to get him back to normal again.

Among all this loneliness, he can only see it as an irrationally cruel joke. His friends all unfriended him on Facebook long ago so it's unlikely any of them even received the mass invite to the townsfolk he sent out - not that they would have come if they had. So it doesn't matter.

He finally is able to muster up the strength to leave the stairs behind and move on to his magnificent cake, now only just for him. It sits atop the big, round dining table as if it were to be gawked at like a museum exhibit, pink icing lining the edges of white layers like ribbons. When he finally reaches it, he immediately dive bombs into its enormous, looming mass with the likening that stale icing on his face is the last thing he will ever experience. The frosting and batter smear against his body, soiling his already lackluster blazer and mixing in his ratty hair. He feels the behemoth mass engulf him and he licks the crumbs from his face and grabs more clumps with his hands. At least he gets the cake to himself. That's a plus. It will take him forever to finish it.

Suddenly, he stops. Suddenly it all means nothing. It's all rendered pointless, reveling in the endless amount of oversized pastry, if he's not there to share the moment. In a flash, the chemicals in his brain reverse themselves. The breathless feeling of liberation immediately leaves his veins only to be replaced by untold rage. Rolling off the table, he asserts himself into a standing position and kicks up his knee at the edge to flip it over. What remains of the towering frosting pile comes tragically tumbling down.

Tens of unlit candles topple over from the highest point and splatter all over the clean tiles and carpeting. The pack of matches is dispatched from a nearby utility drawer and a match is taken out. A swift hand swipes it across the pack and in a split second, it takes flame. He uses it to light one of the birthday candles that is stuck to the tablecloth. In only a matter of minutes the entire table along with everything on it is set ablaze. He watches in vengeful spite as the fire light a red glow along the walls and on his face. The flames lick at the ceiling, carpet and staircase until the cake is no more. There is only the empty table and bright pink tablecloth.

Three bottles of champagne sit still stuck together and unopened over on the counter in the kitchen nearby. He grabs two of them and puts each thumb at the rim of each bottle, then climbs on top of the table. He then simultaneously pops the corks off of both bottles and liquid shoots out everywhere, splashing on the walls and making the lights flicker over an otherwise well-lit hallway. Once the bottles are emptied out, he moves onto the last one.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking it, he gets back up on the table and twists off the cap, letting the foam spray straight upward. He shuts his eyes and leans his head backwards to welcome the incoming fluid as it pours down all over him, wetting his hair so that it is soggy and limp and bleeding into his coat to make the temperature twelve times more unbearable than it already was. But something stops him from continuously wrecking the place and that is the headshot on the wall. That face. It is one that he knows but doesn't recognize. A face from his past that hasn't looked that way since age eighteen. The face of his soul mate: Fiddleford.

The damn photo is not even framed. It was taken with a 1965 Nikon and he and Fiddleford never got around to framing it. To this day it continues to hang on that spot on the wall by a rusty nail. Stanford snorts, though no one can hear him. He might as well take it down and get rid of it. There is no longer any need for him. Ford angrily gnashes his teeth at the shining photo of young Fiddleford Mcgucket who grins innocently while brandishing his award-winning railgun. He'd made that for Ford's birthday and it has the capability to tear down an entire wall of a warehouse which is equivalent to half a large house. The man goes for the spot on the wall by the window and tears the photo from the nail. Grabbing up the box again, he takes out another match and quickly lights it. He falls to his knees by the half-curtained window, holding the picture in one hand next to the match in his other. With unblinking eyes he watches Fiddleford's joy-filled smile wither away into ashes as the fire ears at the laminated paper. At last it is reduced to a black, burnt pile on the floor in front of him. The memories are destroyed. Nothing is sacred anymore.

* * *

It's his fault. It is all his fault for being so blind, for being a coward. He never had any clear vision of the future, always paranoid that the worst was always just around the corner. That's what set on this disaster of bleakness in the first place. Every single time he looks back and wonders how he could've majorly screwed it all up, he thinks about just how different it may have been had he known the chemistry they both would make in the lab as well as in social connection. In hindsight, he would have ended up making a world of different choices than he did in reality. He would've done things better, the right way. He wouldn't have gotten so obsessed that he'd train his anger on his only companion, his soul mate, past the point of no return. Maybe then they would not have had that final fight that broke the camel's back. Maybe then he wouldn't be holed up in this hellhole he can't even bring himself to call a house while others were allowed to roam free and explore the outside world. In here he is stuck with only his regrets to keep him company. He sits in his kneeling position by the fogged up window for an unknown amount of time before finally getting up. It would be a perfect view of just outside the shack if it weren't so smoky on account of most of the curtains now being completely singed so that there is barley a scrap clinging to the pole.

Maybe – and this is a small possibility – this state of isolation that he so passively put himself in does not have to exist. What if there's another way? Ford knows plenty of sorcery. Ever since arriving in Gravity Falls, he and McGucket studied all sorts of supernatural phenomena happening around town and documented each and every encounter they were able to obtain info about. The most elusive one that controls all of it is a power to bend reality to the will of the wielder. If he used this power, he could send out one last call to everyone to convince them that his party is not a drag. It has alcohol, mind-blowing decorations, and anything else one can hope to find at any good blowout. Maybe then they would all come and flock to him. He leans on the pastel wallpaper where McGucket's photo once hung. The entire house's interior is burnt and greyed from the inside out. The imaginary pink ribbons dangling from the low-hanging streamers turn to rusted, bloody deli knives that are still plenty pointy.

Suddenly he walks down a dimly lit hallway, the images of his past mistakes trapped inside the tortured confines of his mind. He stops partway up the never ending staircase of sins as he recalls what kicked off their very last fight, the feud that ended everything. Enormous clocks, distorted out of proportion of the unending, black walls tick ominously and echo down and up the hallway as he turns to face a clearing on one of the walls. The moment that Fiddleford grew so fed up with Stanford's constant obsession and anxiety that he refused to leave the car that they drove miles to the edge of town finally to activate the mothership's battle droids. He remembers that day from thirty-five years ago it like it was yesterday. They were parked on the clearing overlooking the hill above Gravity Falls that is actually the giant dome of a U.F.O. He exited the old-style Honda Fiddleford used to own and opened his door for him but he refused to step out. Instead they just stayed there and continued to argue for hours on end until it was nearly sunset. At that point Ford decided he was done with it all.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd given up on caring long ago.

Then from the fire lit darkness another memory comes. One of his high school years and reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. That is another one of the memories of his younger years that he wishes he could forget. Not because it traumatized him or anything like the others. But mostly it was the stigma surrounding it. He can vaguely recall his peers expressing their blatant dislike for their obligated reading of the thing. And that seems to hold true even to this day. Just the other day, he remembers a few of the town's local teenagers groaning about it being assigned to them. Even he'll admit that the novel is a rather tedious read and he is the hugest nerd that he knows. Nonetheless, he is sure he knows every part of it down to the last word from front to paperback. He was practically forced to go through the entirety of it at least twice, what with Stanley relying on him to basically do all his work for him. There were sometimes evenings that faded into nights of tirelessly walking his brother through the chapters and writing his notes.

Amidst the many insufferable ramblings and entitled monologue provided by the novel's protagonist, Pip, Ford always found one character arc in particular especially intriguing. The character of Ms. Havisham he can remember with great detail. If he were to make an analogy to how he feels in this current moment, he would choose to describe it as rotten a woman as Ms. Havisham. Yes. That's how he feels, trapped. Doomed to repeat the all-but-forgotten memories and mistakes of the past with no willpower to escape. He closes his eyes and pictures it exactly how he pictured it in the book.

Ms. Havisham was technically a woman with great power, but she often refused to act on it. The reason she is trapped in the past is because she was stood up on her wedding day and left at the altar. Much like Stanford, she is unable to move on due to this heartbreaking transaction. Although the party scheduled to take place after the wedding was abandoned, she continues to keep all of the food and decorations around. The memory of her indignity is cursed to stay with her forever and that's exactly how Ford feels with every passing day.

A dark, dusty room. Nothing has been cleaned for at least three decades. It is a small room but meant to fit nearly a hundred people. It's a room built solely for private occasions such as a wedding for a rich individual's closest friends. Due to its inferior size, it only contains the bare necessities needed to make an extravagant wedding. It no longer hold chairs for guests as all the guests were presumed to leave before the wedding reception even began. Much like Stanford, Ms. Havisham despite being idolized for possession of scheming brilliance, when comes down to it is incredibly lonely. On one side of the room there is a long, wooden table. Many old-style delicacies are placed upon the table including cakes, Boston cream pie, and the centerpiece of the entire reception, Ms. Havisham's four-foot wedding cake. The whole thing is a pile of brown sludge at this point, but it once had three layers held up by exorbitant, Greek pillars. Once, only the icing bordering its edges was brown while the rest was a marble white. Now the fine walls of the batter are shriveled and green with mold. The finest of silverware gleaming in the firelight is set down and organized on the old, silken tablecloth. Much of it has gained a rustic brown over the years. It's near impossible to figure out what color the cloth used to be as piles upon piles or decades worth of dust now cling to the silk, giving it its current grey coloring. But what show the most age are the dishware that remain stacked upon each other. Each plate is compact and especially painted china-style made from the most expensive porcelain. The dainty cups are painted the exact same style and covered in the same amount of spider webs. There is a bit of cobweb on everything on the table as they proceed their journey to crawl forward and onto the main cake. In the middle of the room is a clearing where a crowd of chairs meant for the many guests initially planned to show up. Across the clearing a fire within a decorative fireplace burns brightly, being the only light source in the room.

Finally he envisions what he always thought Ms. Havisham's bridal gown would look like. Once upon a time it might have looked beautiful on someone young and beautiful. White, satin fabric practically glides down her arms, legs, and torso with elegant patterns embedded on top. Brown ribbon matching that of the icing on her wedding cake ties together the tight bosom of her corset. But much like the rest of the room, the gown no longer is how it was. From top to bottom the fabric now shows how worn out from years of never changing out of it. It bears small tears spread out in a variety of places and sweat and the rotting food stain its pale surface. Flies buzz about the room, though only because they can't escape. They have long had their fill of the dessert table. Now it's too old even for insects to devour.

Something is wrong. The heat from the fireplace in the memory, he can almost feel it on his skin. He can hear the crackling and it makes his scalp itch. He reaches up under his ratty wig to scratch it. The other is used for scratching the many itchy spots along his body as well. The dress really is as uncomfortable as it looks. By now, the man knows something's up.


	4. Chapter 4

He opens his eyes.

The glow from the fire immediately pierces through his brain. No! This can't be possible! This is not his destiny! He whips his head around frantically in search of an exit, the powdery wig upon his head swaying back and forth with the motion.

* * *

Outside, an old man struggles to walk through town. His will has been broken for many many years and now he barely can muster up the strength to leave the junk pile that he can hardly call a home. Now there's no coming back for him, not since that fateful day of the fall that broke him both physically and mentally. Nonetheless, he has still gotten used to being ogled by the townsfolk at fist as he limps around Gravity Falls with his torn overalls and scruffy, white, beard dragging along the ground, carrying whatever advanced contraption made from various scrap metal in the junkyard, and every time he never remembers the purpose of inventing it. Pretty soon, the people in town get used to him as well. Some regard him as the town nut who inhabits the junkyard and steals children and animals. A likely story. Most of the time the children and animals willingly go to find him. He appreciates what few friends he has at his age. They almost make him feels as he is young again. Not that he wants to go back to the way things were when he was at a certain young age. All of his old friends from back then he abandoned long ago in favor of only one. Nowadays he has no idea where that one is. He is not entirely sure he even wants to know. Their last encounter is but a memory that he'd unlikely forget as much as he wants to. It's the whole reason he lives the way he does. And he will keep the consequences of his ex-lover's actions within both mind and body as they haunt him wherever he goes. One day he decides that enough is enough. He's gone through too much torture than he should ever have been able to handle. Now is the time. Gravity is falling and it's time for the world to finally end and he will end it all himself. That is how he finds himself walking (albeit with difficulty) toward the south side of town to where it all happened. For the longest time as he tiredly treks on his glance has been cast downward at the evening shadows just starting to appear on the ground. But as he approaches his destination he is able to muster up enough strength to lift his gaze to the now-purple sky to see the rusted water tower looming within it.

* * *

Ford begins to sweat beneath his wig. There seems to be no way out of this hell. Then he spots the one opening leading directly to the outside world in the entire room: the window at the end. He stands up from the only chair in the room and makes his way carefully toward the window. His high-heels creak threateningly over the floorboards and with every step in them he has to lift the frills on his dress higher. When he peers out the window, he sees the same thing, Gravity Falls. Except it's not the same, in fact a lot has changed since he last saw outside. From looking out the window, he does not look down from his great-niece and nephew's bedroom in the attic of the Mystery Shack. Instead he glowers down from one of the apartments three stories high onto downtown Gravity Falls. Other than that, things should be the same, right? The supermarket, Lazy Susan's, and the Pizzamatronic sit all in a row straight across the street corner just as he remembers. The rest of the shops, diners, and halls line all sides of the street the rest of the way. In the distance he can see the faint outline of the piles of trash in the Gravity Falls town dump. They say a rabid animal lives in there and will steal your liver to sell on the black market if one strays too close. He's recorded every single supernatural being he ever witnessed around town and nowhere in any of his four journals does there appear to be a mysterious junkyard creature. Still, the rare occasion when he does happen to pass by the dump, he feels an unexplainable, unsettling feeling that he passes off as a reaction to the trash heap's horrid stench. So why does everything feel so strange and different?

Everything looks different in design as if he's been pulled into a parallel universe. The colors of every object he focuses on outside are much brighter and more saturated than he remembers, as if photo-shopped. Apart from that, the entire scene from the street corner to the horizon and enormous sky has a sort of magical glint. Everything seems to emanate a shining light from the outside without being shone on by the sun. This world doesn't need a sun. That must be why there is no sun. Just to check, he looks up into the multicolored sky once more to confirm that there indeed is no ball of fiery gas.

That's when he notices something else wrong with this picture. Not only is there no sun, but in its place is what looks to be a blazing meteor heading straight for the U.F.O. hill above the ridge! The flying rock bursts with all kinds of shades in the sky, bringing a full-on aroura borealis. Ford thinks to himself, so that's what is bringing on the strange emphasis on color. He wonders, could this be all because of him as well? He must warn someone immediately. He looks down at the townspeople walking around the street, going about their daily business.


	5. Chapter 5

There is one particular person he spots who does not look busy at the moment. The old man with the long, white beard walks irritatingly slowly down the gravel pathway of the boulevard. Stanford pounds desperately on the dusty glass of the windowpane, screaming out until his vocal cords go numb to watch out and warn everyone to evacuate the city. Does nobody else notice the burning meteor heading straight for all of them in the sky? But it's no use. The man only continues walking no matter how loud he screams, however hard tries to capture his attention. By now the meteor strikes the middle of downtown and in a swirl of seizure-inducing colors, Ford tears himself away from the window and throws his body beneath the table before everything goes dark. The whole world crashes around him, causing the room to quake quite violently for a good thirty seconds. He finally dares to poke his head out from under the table after he is sure that the shaking has stopped for good. When he looks out the window a second, he sees that the outside is nothing but blackness.

He picks himself up and out from under the table before he looks around the room again. His dress twirls and brushes the ground, trailing behind him in all directions every which way he turns. It manages to swivel itself into the still crackling fireplace and get caught in the flames, causing them to spread up his a state of panic, he begins to rush around the room in a fruitless attempt to ditch the heat but only serves to spread it faster. Some of the flames catch onto the hardwood floor. They make a pathway behind him now wherever he goes, looping in circles and twisting at obscure angles as he violently paces the room. The small chamber begins to fill up with smoke and the man feels even more frantic as it clouds his vision. In a furious attempt to get out of the dress, he dives over the table to the corner of the room. He hits the wall and stays there for a few seconds, dazed. He barely has time to react when the rest of his dress moves over the table and flips it over on top of him, pinning him to the wall. The table creaked ominously as it began to tip over. Immediately after the fall, the entire table bursts into flames. The dishes and desserts manage to save themselves from the fire but not their inevitable fate of smashing or messing themselves against the floor. He scoots inch by inch, as far as he can until his back is pressed completely up against the wall as the flames lick his skin and singe his hair.

If high heels are good for anything, it's for touching things while at the same time not coming into contact with them. He uses the heels to his advantage and points the spiky tips onto what little wood is still unsinged. With his legs he pushes and manages to kick the table back over and away from him again. There, it smashes into charred pieces, the wood being weakened greatly by the fire, but not before ripping a good chunk of his dress off of him. That was his main sash, the only part that was endanger of leading the flames to burn him. The smell by now has gotten near unbearable. It's clouded much of his lungs and he fears the worst if he doesn't soon receive clean air. Pushing himself off the ground, he stumbles back toward the window. In his mind, he continues his recollection of how everything fell apart.

The world is alight with bright and brilliant color. Each object everywhere he goes is tinged to the brim with a bioluminescent flame. The buildings around him are coming undone, changing shape in front of his very pitiful existence. They mold out of their structures and bleed into the street, but still the old man continues on down the street. Finally he reaches the street corner and can look past downtown into where the foliage clouds above the dirt road. There he can see the rickety legs of the thirty-five-year-old water tower and where the ladder leading to the top begins. When he gets to it, his calloused hands grab onto the first few rungs and pauses as his mind begins to wander back to the last time he was poised at this exact place.

* * *

Ford had gotten back into the driver's seat and slammed the door before then driving furiously in a turnaround that left angry tire circles in the ground up dirt. They drove down the hill and back into the forest. At first it looked as if Ford was driving them back into town but instead he took a shortcut detour and landed them just outside in a clearing in the forest where the water tower had just been built. When Fiddleford saw where they were going, he tried to take the wheel but to no avail. Stanford just turned it so that it slid out of his grip. This caused the Honda to swerve off course a bit. They barely swerved to avoid a father and his child walking their dog through the woods but were able to get back on track without causing any damage. As they approached their destination, Fiddleford begged hysterically for him to turn around and go back. He tried apologizing profusely with tear streaming from both of his eyes. But it was no use. Ford was too wrapped up in his own rage and desperation. Once they reached the tower he slammed on the brakes harshly. The stop was so abrupt in fact that if not for their seatbelts, the two would have surely went flying. Fiddleford was still weeping uncontrollably for his fiancé not to do this but Ford had already opened the passenger's door.


	6. Chapter 6

Fiddleford did not cease in his fearful pleading though deep down by then he knew it was probably in vain. Stanford grabs his arm as Fiddleford lets out a surprised yelp of pain at the strength in his grip. He showed absolutely no hesitation in roughly yanking him out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Up the ladder the old man climbs, each grab and pull on one rung to the next taking more effort than last, forcing more and more strain on his tired, aching muscles. He's getting closer to the top now, closer finally to the sweet, sweet bliss of oblivion. The ladder creaks perilously under his weight (though he is barely over ninety pounds), and as he climbs higher and higher, he can almost see the round building at the top point through the fog. The end draws ever nearer. He closes his eyes and continues to climb.

* * *

He decided about halfway up that he should not have to be stripped of dignity by one who'd lost his own dignity years ago. In his tracks he stopped, one foot on the rung above his other foot and refused to go any further up. That is until he felt the butt of what seemed to be the rail-flare hybrid gun that had been one of the many pieces of advance technology the two men had made together. Then the triangular point of the barrel poked sharply into his lower back and he knew he then had no choice but to climb.

* * *

Stanford finally makes his way to the window. By now it is completely fogged over and he can't tell whether or not it's still pitch black out there. But once he gets close enough, the fog clears out and he can see the town below once again. It is hard for him to make anything out clearly as his vision blurs from the excessive loss of oxygen. With one last gasping plea for help, he presses his palm against the dirty window before falling away completely.

* * *

Finally the two had reached the top and the skinnier one felt the chilling air blow from the sky against his skin. He leant forward on the railing as the end of the gun did not move from being trained on him. Ford yelled a few words at him that he couldn't recognize over the roaring wind. He didn't care. He was done with taking this. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose anyway. And he sure as hell was not about to let himself be humiliated right up to the point of death. If he was to go down, then he would go down with a fight. Turning ardently from the rail, he knocked the gun straight out of the other's surprised hands and shoved at him immediately after he had been disarmed, knocking him to the floor of the small terrace around the top of the tower and bowling forward onto him. The gun flew out of the other man's hand and went hurtling over the rail and into the fog. A loud but distance clunk made it apparent that it hit the Honda far below. Ford's face twisted into an enraged snarl and launched himself upright again, causing Fiddleford to tumble off of him. From there the real fight ensues.

* * *

The trap door on top of the apartment building explodes open and enormous clouds of billowing smoke shoot out of it. After a majority of the smoke clears, he hauls himself up and onto the ceiling where he can finally breathe fresh air. He comes out coughing, sputtering, and covered head to toe in a thick, black layer of soot. But reality is quick to spoil his short-lived relief for he senses something else that is wrong. The town is not the way it used to be. Every building is misshapen including the one he stands atop now. From there he can view the entire town. Even the trash heap is gone and the garbage particles float freely through the air and peacefully glide right by his matted, grey hair. He takes of his glasses and rubs the remainder of cake and smoke from them, hoping desperately that he is only seeing things. But alas, when places them back on his face, the town has only grown worse. The sky is a vast, deep red with chunks of the remainder of the meteor still floating in the atmosphere. The blood-curdling screams of agony from his friends, neighbors, brother, niece, and nephew pierce his ears as he looks on at the streets below him. Was this all his fault as well? Did he fail everyone else that he loved? Gravity Falls is doomed because of him and the havoc he managed to release in his youth. His eyes wander over the town for a little bit before finally glancing to the left to notice the water tower. That's where he failed. That is where everything went so wrong so many years ago. It is only gloomy and cloudy around the end of town with the tower. He closes his eyes and the rest of the memory begins to play out in his head and he dreads the slow crawl toward the end.

* * *

The two men were bruised and bloodied all over from fighting each other and were both forced to take a step back from one another to simply breathe. Fiddleford stumbled dizzily away from his friend and backed over the rails. Ford sat upright just in time to see him go over. He screamed out, got up, and ran toward him with his arm outreached in a futile attempt to grab him before he went. But it was too late. Then…the chaos begins. The pieces of meteorite floating around the town burst into even smaller pieces, creating yet another rumbling explosion. The town yet again is a rainbow of chaos and turmoil and it will never stop being his doing.


	7. Chapter 7

The terrified shrieks of the townspeople have now turned to a sickening gargling of blood as it comes up in their throats. He clutches the old photo of Fiddleford in his hand even tighter as if the fate of the Falls depended on it. Fiddleford. He feels a disturbance now when he thinks about him. He knows deep down that it's ridiculous. It's been years since he's seen the man. Still, he can't help but think there is something off amidst the fabric of Gravity Falls coming apart at the seams. Something draws his eyes back to the old water tower. He knows the end is near.

* * *

The tired, scrawny piece meat finally makes it to the terrace of the big, metal water container. He leans over the railing like he did all those years ago. But this time he leans forward over it. This time will be no accident. Everything counts down. Bloodshot, blue eyes watch as the featureless figure silhouetted against the clouds throws itself from the tower.

* * *

Fiddleford's picture crumbles into dust in his hand, signifying to him that it's finally all over. He falls to his knees and looks up to the blazing, red sky, his burnt, grey hair ruffling in the slight breeze. Everything is gone and it's all his fault.


End file.
